I confess, I always
admired her. I said now: "Mrs. Falchion, you have suggested what might
easily be possible in the circumstances, but I candidly admit that I
have never yet found your presence disagreeable; and I suppose that is a
comment upon my weakness. Though, to speak again with absolute truth, I
think I do not like you at this present."

"Yes, I fancy I can understand that," she said. "I can understand how,
for instance, one might feel a just and great resentment, and have in
one's hand the instrument of punishment, and yet withhold one's hand and
protect where one should injure."

At this moment these words had no particular significance to me, but
there chanced a time when they came home with great force. I think,
indeed, that she was speaking more to herself than to me. Suddenly she
turned to me.

"I wonder," she said, "if I am as cruel as you think me--for, indeed, I
do not know. But I have been through many things."

Here her eyes grew cold and hard. The words that followed seemed in
no sequence. "Yet," she said, "I will go and see him to-morrow....
Good-night." After about an hour I went below to Galt Roscoe's cabin.
I drew aside the curtain quietly. Justine Caron evidently had not heard
me. She was sitting beside the sick man, her fingers still smoothing
away the pillow from his fevered face and her eyes fixed on him. I spoke
to her. She rose. "He has slept well," she said. And she moved to the
door.

"Miss Caron," I said, "if Mrs. Falchion is willing, you could help me to
nurse Mr. Roscoe?"

A light sprang to her eyes. "Indeed, yes," she said.

"I will speak to her about it, if you will let me?" She bowed her head,
and her look was eloquent of thanks. After a word of good-night we
parted.

I knew that nothing better could occur to my patient than that Justine
Caron should help to nurse him. This would do far more for him than
medicine--the tender care of a woman--than many pharmacopoeias.

Hungerford had insisted on relieving me for a couple of hours at
midnight. He said it would be a good preparation for going on the bridge
at three o'clock in the morning. About half-past two he came to my cabin
and waked me, saying: "He is worse--delirious; you had better come."

He was indeed delirious. Hungerford laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Marmion," he said, "that woman is in it. Like the devil, she is
ubiquitous. Mr. Roscoe's past is mixed up with hers somehow. I don't
suppose men talk absolute hist